


taken to this place inbetween

by autisticlalna (mathonwys)



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Dream Team SMP Roleplay (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Karl Jacobs is an Interdimensional Being, Karl Jacobs-centric, Lowercase, Memory Loss, Present Tense, Time Travelling Karl Jacobs, Web Series: Tales from the SMP, the Inbetween (Tales From the SMP)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 19:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathonwys/pseuds/autisticlalna
Summary: how long has it been? how long is it going to be? he’s never here this long, right?(he's lost.)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	taken to this place inbetween

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this pre-Haunted Mansion and then never got around to finishing it, so sorry that it's kinda abrupt. i like it enough to post anyway though :D;;
> 
> sorry that i keep writing minecraft.

he’s not sure how long he’s been here.

it’s not like time moves while he’s here, anyway. this is a place outside of time entirely, a place inbetween past and present and future where seconds and minutes and hours are a suggestion rather than a fact. the gold metal of the clock is cold in his hands; the part normally showing the sky is flat white, and the ticking of the internal mechanisms is silent.

(normally he hears the ticking in his ears, when he’s about to go. not just in his ears, actually— he  _ feels _ it inside him, feels his pulse accelerate as the ticking of the clock picks up speed, until he fishes it out of his pocket and holds it up to the light and sees day-night-day spin into a blur before the ground vanishes underneath him and he’s lost inbetween.)

all he ever sees around him is white. there’s some splashes of colour here and there— a sky permanently frozen in a mix of sunrise and sunset, potted flowers he can’t remember the names of (he used to like flowers, right? there was a field), pools of trickling water, patches of grass, the glitter of enchantment marking the books left behind by whatever— whoever— is looking out for him.

(he thinks he wrote one of those books. he remembers sitting on the swing, scratching out the words onto the page—  _ this is the inbetween, a place you have been to a few times now _ — and he must’ve left it somewhere. he wonders which version of him found it. he wonders if it was him.)

everything else is white and cream and pale gray. he’s never seen so much quartz in his life, he’s pretty sure. he misses bright colours. he misses eye-searing pinks and greens and purples and yellows and blues. he misses the jumble of colours that made him up. the inbetween bleached it out of him. his hoodie is whites and grays like everything else, his skin is pale, and even his hair lost saturation and gotten streaked with white.

(he used to be such an eyesore. people used to have trouble looking at him. he found a way around it— polygons flickering and assembling and changing into something else. something more familiar to the people around him. something they could see as a friend. the colours stayed inside him, and he wore them on his sleeves. then he’d get heated, or get scared, or get stabbed, and it would burst out like fireworks until he pulled himself back together.)

there’s always something new to find. he’s been walking these halls for longer than he understands; he thinks he should feel sore, that he’d need to rest, but it’s like he’s in stasis as long as he’s here. he’s not aging. his hair isn’t growing. his muscles aren’t tiring. he’s not hungry, or thirsty, or tired. he just  _ is _ . he can’t sleep. he just keeps walking. the pathways keep changing, the doors keep leading somewhere different, there’s always something new to find and something new to read.

(he used to sleep in a pile with people he cared about. even if he woke up early, he’d stay there and listen to them breathe and feel relieved that he was there. it helped him feel more real, to have someone by his side. even if they weren’t awake, it was still something that anchored him. sometimes he’d sleep in, and he’d get elbowed awake and groan at whoever woke him up. it was usually worth it. there were days where he’d just lounge in bed, reading or writing, and someone would sit next to him and bother him about it.)

how long has it been? how long is it going to be? he’s never here this long, right? he’s never been here this long before. he’d find more questions than answers, and look out into the horizon, and then it’d all melt away into swirls of purple and green and starlight and then he’d be back on the other side. back in the normal flow of time. back where he… belonged? did he belong there? did he belong here?

(he doesn’t know. he doesn’t remember. there’s no soft impressions, no fragmented landscapes, no glimpses of people or flickers of connection. there’s just a gaping void. he doesn’t know how he got here. he doesn’t know if he was always meant to be here.)

at some point, he started singing. it felt wrong, at first— the inbetween was always silent, with even his footsteps being muted. but he’d grown tired of the silence, and he’d called up the memories of the songs he used to always listen to and started to sing with a strained voice that echoed through the marble halls. he was here. if he felt too lost, if he felt too alone, he’d sing and remember he was here.

(singing on stage was always fun. he’d look out on the rows and rows of seats, grip the microphone, and belt out stupid half-made up lyrics with a wide grin on his face as he bounced around with barely contained energy. usually someone would be up on stage alongside him. they’d elbow him when he missed his cue, and try to keep it serious when he messed around. sometimes someone would have a guitar, or some other instrument, and the venue was full of noise and life and inappropriate jokes.)

the echoes of himself never talked to him. sometimes he heard them sing, too, and wondered if it was him in the past or the future (as close as you could get in this place). they wandered the inbetween like he did, gazes unfocused, and passed through him like ghosts. it used to freak him out. now he’s desensitized to seeing his face everywhere. it’s all him, in the end— this place is him. he’s a part of it, and he’s a part of it, and it’s a part of him, whatever that means. it’s alive, and he’s alive.

(everyone was so different from each other. that’s what made things interesting— personalities clashed, or boosted each other up. it was a patchwork of different aesthetics, of different vibes, of different voices and moods and opinions that made it alive and real and home. he’d wanted to be a part of it so, so badly. he’d tried. he’d tried, and tried, and maybe the universe took pity on him. maybe it shouldn't've.)

it’s like being in a fog. it’s like floating free, being attached to yourself only with strings that could snap at any moment. it’s like watching things from a distance. it’s like tv static. it’s a certain kind of emptiness that leaves him doing the same thing over and over and over until everything bleeds away like the colour from his hoodie. there’s no day, or night, or any way for things to change. the words on the pages bleed together. the castle changes, but it all looks the same anyway. he’s lost.

(he’s lost.)

he’s at the edge. he’s sitting on the edge, his legs danging, and he’s half-awake and half-there. he stares out at the horizon. is he going to be here forever? is this it? is this where his tale ends— an outline of his former self, lost somewhere inbetween where no one will find him? no one else knows this place exists. no one else knows about him.

(this can’t be it. he’s not going to let his life— his story— end on an empty page.)

he needs to find a way back. he gets to his feet, determination burning in his eyes, and he stares up at the massive castle behind him with fists clenched. a sudden certainty takes root in him: he’s not going to be lost here forever. he’s going to take things into his own hands, finally. he’s going to take himself back.

(there’s people waiting for him. there’s people looking for him. if he focuses, if he pauses and waits, he sometimes hears voices that aren’t his own calling out for him. it scared him, at first. but there’s people waiting for him, looking for him, and missing him.)

he hardly remembers who he is. he hardly remembers his own name: everything is just flickers of quiet impressions, of half-forgotten feelings, that keep slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. there’s not much left of him.

(but there’s enough.)


End file.
